Squire Throwleigh's Heir

by Michael Jecks

  It all suited his mood, for Sir Baldwin Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, was joining his friend to witness the funeral of Squire Roger of Throwleigh, representing the Sheriff, who had been called away to meet the King’s procurers, while Simon was there to represent the Warden himself.

  The knight, a tall man in his middle forties with the build of a swordsman, broad-shouldered with a heavily muscled right arm and still slim-waisted, rode easily, as befitted someone who had travelled extensively. His face was keen and sharp, with a neatly trimmed beard of the same dark colour as his hair, but his features had been marked with pain over the years: lines lay etched deeply into his forehead and at either side of his mouth.

  His companion, a close friend, was more than ten years younger, yet did not look it. Simon Puttock’s hair was richly peppered with grey, and his figure was beginning to run to fat.

  ‘You are putting on weight, Simon.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Baldwin gave him a look of haughty disdain.

  ‘If you want to distract yourself, think again about your fiancee,’ Simon laughed. ‘Don’t try getting at me.’

  ‘It is a shame that Squire Roger chose this moment to die,’ Baldwin admitted.

  ‘Why, because it’s only a short while to your wedding, you mean? Ah, I’m sure he’d be sorry to have dragged you from your home when you’re in the middle of the preparations.’

  That was why Simon had been with his friend. Simon’s wife was helping Lady Jeanne, Baldwin’s fiancee, to prepare for their wedding, and Simon had been diverting Baldwin, trying to keep his mind from the myriad details of the celebration - and preventing the knight from getting in Jeanne’s and Margaret’s way. For once it was a relief to Simon that his daughter was not with him, for Edith had elected to stay at Lydford with a friend rather than make the gruelling journey to Furnshill. If she had also been there, Simon was sure she would have been under the feet of the bride-to-be at every opportunity.

  ‘You think I have any say about the arrangements?’ Baldwin protested. ‘God’s bones! I had thought that Jeanne would have had little time to organise me, especially now she’s lost her maidservants.’ It was a never-ending source of pleasure to him that she had, too, he reflected secretly. Jeanne’s ‘maid’ had been a large, coarse, brutal figure, an ungainly, peevish, froward woman who put the fear of God - or the Devil - into all she met - especially Baldwin. He shuddered at the memory. ‘But no! What with inviting the guests and telling me where they must sleep, and Edgar taking over all the other preparations…’

  He stopped himself. The delight he was giving his friend was almost painful to observe, and he had no desire to increase Simon’s pleasure. It was curiously unsettling to reflect on the matter, too. Soon his whole life would be altered, he knew. The absence of his servant, Edgar, was a proof of that. Formerly Edgar had never let the knight out of his sight, and yet where was he now? Baldwin and he had been together for many years; Edgar had served as his man-at-arms when they were both warriors, and without him Baldwin felt strangely naked.

  But Edgar refused to let anyone else take over the supervision of the wedding. In any case, while the bailiff was at his side, Baldwin was content. It would be a very hardy outlaw who would dare attack a knight and a sturdy fighter like Simon, especially seeing the quality of their weapons. Baldwin touched the hilt of his new riding sword with a feeling of smugness.

  It was short, the blade only twenty-one inches long, but it was made of the most beautiful, bright, peacock-blue steel he had ever seen, with grey steel quillons that curved gently from the leather-covered hilt, and a pommel that balanced the whole weapon perfectly. When he first picked it up, it felt almost alive in his hand.

  Sir Baldwin had bought it only a month before, and it was so much lighter than his old war sword that he hardly felt it at his hip, but that wasn’t the only reason why he was already so fond of it; he liked the writing - and the motif on the reverse. Baldwin had found a good jeweller who had used a burin to carve the four letters carefully into the long fuller of the blade, filling each with silver wire and hammering it tight: BOAC. They stood for Beati Omnipotensque Angeli Christi - Blessed and Omnipotent are the Angels of Christ. But on the other side of the blade was a simple sign: the cross of the Knights Templar, his old Order.

  Baldwin felt his mood lighten as the trackway narrowed, went into a dip. Soon they were out from under the trees and paused at a ford. The two men rested their horses again, letting the beasts dip their heads thankfully into the brackish brown water that ran from the moors.

  ‘Not far now,’ Simon commented as his horse puffed and snorted, shaking its mane, before stooping for more.

  Baldwin patted his rounsey’s neck. ‘You knew the squire, didn’t you?’

  ‘A little. I had some dealings with him. The usual petty stuff: he had his villeins run away and declare themselves miners. And miners dammed his streams and diverted his water for their leats. Didn’t you know him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. He had a recollection of a heavy-set man with a red face and hoarse, bellowing laugh. ‘He was invited to the wedding with his wife. Poor devil!’

  ‘He had a good life,’ Simon said disinterestedly. ‘Fought many battles, won his lord’s thanks and respect - and a pleasant estate.’

  ‘True.’ The knight knew as well as any that the easiest way for a man-at-arms to make money was to capture an enemy knight or lord and sell him. Squire Roger had been thoroughly successful at this, taking prisoners of such importance that he had been able to sell them, for a share in their profits, to his King. Without the cost of keeping them, but with a significant share of their worth, he had become wealthy. ‘He always struck me as a generous, capable man,’ Baldwin continued. ‘How did you find him?’

  Simon considered a moment. ‘A gentleman: always courteous, keen to avoid disputes. It’s not often you meet someone like him. His wife was much the same - bright and intelligent. She and my wife got on well.’

  ‘I suppose the funeral will be in the village?’ Baldwin asked, his mind moving on to the sombre event they must witness the next day.

  ‘Yes. The church lies west of the hamlet. It’s a lovely place, the Church of St Mary the Virgin, very peaceful. His body will rest there happily enough.’

  Baldwin nodded, and they clattered along together.

  ‘I believe the priest was the squire’s own man,’ Baldwin observed as he kicked his horse on. ‘Doesn’t he live at the hall?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. The squire employed him as a tutor. I can’t imagine too many priests who would be prepared to come to a quiet backwater like this.’

  ‘Godforsaken little vill would be nearer the mark, wouldn’t it?’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘Still, some like the desolation.’

  ‘Some of us do, yes,’ Simon chuckled. ‘But you don’t have to search for motives here, Baldwin. There’s nothing suspicious about Roger’s death.’

  ‘No,’ Baldwin agreed, grinning. He and Simon had investigated many murders together, but he had no concerns about the sudden death of the squire. There was no suggestion of violence: he’d simply fallen dead from his horse. It was sad, but there was not much to regret in a swift and painless death.

  The only issue that could cause difficulties was the will, but Baldwin felt sure that a man like Squire Throwleigh would have ensured all was in order. No doubt his wife would control the estate until the heir was of age.

  A slow smile broke out over his features as he considered that word ‘wife’. It was a curious title. A woman who was prepared to become the possession of another. Not that Baldwin would ever think of his Jeanne as a chattel. She was too precious to him.

  ‘Are you thinking of her again?’

  ‘Well? What of it?’

  ‘Nothing, Baldwin,’ Simon laughed, ‘but try to keep your feelings away from your face, all right? Don’t forget we’re here to witness a burial. If you keep that inane grin on your face, Roger’s widow will be within her r
ights to have you flogged around the churchyard!’

  Baldwin hurriedly brought his mind back to the present. There was one topic which he knew Simon would treat seriously.

  ‘What is the name of the heir?’

  ‘Herbert. He’ll inherit his third.’

  ‘Until his mother does the decent thing,’ Baldwin observed.

  ‘That’ll be a long time,’ Simon said shortly.

  ‘She won’t give her son her share?’

  ‘Not for some time. The boy’s only five or six - I expect she’ll stay and protect it, and him, until he is old enough to look after himself.’

  Baldwin nodded. A man’s will divided his possessions into three, after paying off debts. One third, the dower, would go to his wife; a second third would go to good causes so that his soul would be well received; only the last of the three parts would go to his heir. In cases where the heir was too young to look after himself, his mother would remain at home and act as guardian, but normally she would leave as soon as her son was old enough to fend for himself, retiring to a convent, or taking the vows and living as a recluse in a small property and not interfering in her son’s life, giving him her dower to protect the estate, and living on whatever portion her son chose to send to her.

  As the knight mused, their road took them due east. Here they were sheltered under great trees forming an avenue. It was like the road up to Cadbury, and Baldwin found himself comparing this remote manor to his own lush demesne. Looking about him, he felt that if he possessed so barren a site he would feel guilty asking a woman to marry him. He could never have brought Jeanne here. It would be cruel to ask a woman to live so far from a city or civilised people. The thought made his face twist in a sardonic grin, for Jeanne’s old home wasn’t far from here.

  It led Baldwin to wonder how the squire’s heir would survive. Lads of that age were resilient, he knew, but losing a father was a traumatic experience at any age. He could still recall the feeling of emptiness when his own father had died, even though he was almost a man by then, being eleven years old. His mother had died five years before, giving birth to his fourth brother who, like the third, had not survived a single year. Now Baldwin could hardly remember what she looked like. All he was sure of was her auburn hair. At least the squire’s lad still has his mother, he thought.

  The trees thinned and suddenly fell away as they came closer to the vill. Now they could see its extent: a few houses on the left, a pound on the right where stray cattle and sheep could be collected, and ahead lay the church, an imposing building in heavy grey stone. Beyond, on the northern road, was a small cluster of additional houses, but Simon took the other track, heading round the southernmost point of the church grounds, and then trotting off towards the moors.

  ‘That’s Cosdon,’ the bailiff said, pointing to the massive hill to their right. ‘From the top you can see for miles. Wonderful views all around. I was up there once, and could swear I could see the sea both to the north-west and south-east. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see your house from up there.’

  Baldwin said nothing. Simon adored the moors, but to his mind the hill felt threatening, like a monstrous creature that was even now preparing to spring down and crush them. On its rounded back a heavy-looking grey cloud hung as if tethered there. He gave a shudder. It was something to do with this place, he was sure. There was an aura of cruelty - or perhaps just a simple lack of compassion - here, in this landscape. He had a sense of the unforgiving nature of the moors. The land gave the impression that it was aware of the beings who strove and struggled in the small village at the hill’s feet, but watched them without sympathy or tolerance. It would destroy them with as little feeling as a child stamping on a beetle.

  The road began to rise, and when they had travelled another half-mile from the vill, they came to long strips of fields, a meadow, and at last an orchard with a stream bounding its easternmost edge. Simon pointed with his chin. ‘There it is. Welcome to Throwleigh Manor.’

  It was a great, low, squat building - long, and to Baldwin’s eye, gloomy. There was no curtain wall; the outer defence consisted merely of a hedge of thorny bushes, closely planted and layered. Behind the house was the rising mass of yet another hill, its flanks smothered in heather, while to his left Baldwin saw a broad expanse of marshland. On his right, a clitter of heavy grey stones lay haphazardly, like rubble from a ruined building.

  Simon spurred his horse and they rode on over a wide verge to the house itself. The sun had disappeared behind the moor before them, and the day had taken on the dingy hues of twilight. In this aspect the house took on an alarming appearance: dark and menacing.

  Baldwin had to remind himself that it was Simon, not he, who was prone to superstitious fears, but as they trotted towards the buildings he felt a powerful sense of sadness which was almost palpable about this house of mourning.

  Chapter Four

  The serving girl covered her face again as soon as the priest left the chapel, and she went back to the security of her kitchen. Shoulders heaving, she crossed to the little three-legged stool near the fire, and collapsed on it in a fit of powerless misery.

  ‘Petronilla? Come on, foolish chit, this’ll never do!’ Daniel, the household’s steward, patted her shoulder. Her paroxysms of grief began to fade, and he fetched her a pint of wine, holding it under her nose until she wiped her eyes one last time, and looked up at him with bleary-eyed gratitude. ‘Come on, drink up. You can’t go to serve your mistress looking like this. You don’t want to make her feel even worse, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it was, was…’

  ‘I know. We all loved him. He was kind and generous. The squire can never be replaced for us, Petronilla. He can’t be.’

  She saw that his eyes were becoming misty too. Daniel, she recalled, had been a footsoldier alongside the old squire in many battles in France and Wales, and suddenly she realised that he was trying to cope with his own grief while ensuring that all the servants of the hall performed their duties. His courage in the face of his own loss was enough to make her feel almost ashamed.

  ‘Daniel, I am so sorry, I never thought about you.’

  He replied with an unsteady smile, but then gave a loud sniff and glanced through the open door. ‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I am old enough to have buried almost all my friends and, although I don’t like it, I’m at least used to it. Save your sympathy for the squire’s widow. And for his son,’ he added heavily, with an emphasis that made the girl look up.

  ‘Herbert? Why do you sound so sad when you mention him, Daniel?’

  ‘Because he’s the squire now, girl. He has the full weight of the manor resting on his young shoulders, whether he wishes it or no. And there are many who’d like to deprive him of his inheritance.’

  With this gloomy observation, he saw Simon and Baldwin entering the yard. Muttering a curse, he shouted for grooms and ran out. Had he looked back, he would have seen Petronilla’s eyes fill with tears again.

  She bit her lip as she placed a hand on her belly, touching the new life beginning there, before sobbing afresh.

  Baldwin and Simon dropped thankfully from their horses, rubbing sore buttocks and stretching their aching thighs. It was a relief to see the steward hurrying towards them.

  Daniel was a tall, cadaverous man with thinning, grizzled hair. His eyes were dark and shrewd, with laughter-lines to prove that he was a happy enough fellow normally, but today their gleam was muted in deference to the occasion.

  ‘Bailiff, I am glad to see you again. If you and Sir Baldwin would follow me?’ They were led over the threshold into the screens. Here Daniel stood aside and motioned them into the hall.

  Simon was struck by the cheerful atmosphere. If he had not known that they were met here to bury a man, he would have thought a celebration was in full flow. There was a thick crowd, all well-to-do, standing away from the great fireplace, talking loudly, all grasping drinking cups. As he entered, the noise was deafening.

&n
bsp; He glanced over the group, but it was the woman he noticed almost immediately.

  She sat on a small chair at the fireside, a sombre young boy whom Simon took to be the heir standing near to hand, his head downcast. Lady Katharine of Throwleigh was a slender woman in her middle twenties, tall and elegant in her green velvet and linen coif. She watched the men as they entered with an intense stillness.

  Where she sat the room was in comparative darkness. The candles and sconces were all set away from the fire, and here the only light came from the burning logs themselves. When Simon was some few feet from her, he could see the immensity of her despair and sadness in her drawn features and red-rimmed grey eyes. The boy didn’t raise his head to look at the guests; he appeared to be absorbed in his own private misery. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was a quiet maidservant, but Simon had no interest in her. He had eyes only for the lady of the house.

  He bowed, offering his respects on his own behalf as well as his master, the Warden of the Stannaries. Baldwin stepped to his side and bowed in his turn.